Words and Invisible Cords

As I feed you I am fed As you heal I heal, too As you don't heal I heal, nonetheless As you heal I may not heal As you don't heal I may not, also Whatever They say Healing starts at home I say Dealing starts at home Where home Is where you are Is where you are, now.

  It is 25 degrees celsius in my room Still too cold for tatay So at 8pm he is guided to the other room With no AC on Nanay, and sometimes when the grandkids are around They stay in my room We cuddle in the cold We breathe warm giggles Consume heat as our legs big and small Brush against each other under the covers Until the eyes get tired from the bright LED light Straight from the smart tv mounted on the wall Until our throats go dry from old gossips and banter Until the intervals of our inhales and exhales Follow the rhythm of four lines forming a square Until our heartbeats fall to fifty a minute And the sound of old gossips and banter fade. It is 11 o'clock The grandkids sleeping like tired construction workers Nanay and I with our eyes half-closed And with our sentences hanging unfinished We hear struggling, small footsteps Strides so painful yet strong He doesn't knock He opens the door He smiles watching the little construction workers He asks me 'tong' you stil...

It rained heavily last night Flood water filled the spaces in the cracks Davao's roads, concrete and rough Parched from days of scorching dry heat Gulped unapologetically in relief. Seated, I crossed my legs Laid my back inch by inch Onto the woven surface of rattan Subtly screeching, and adjusting To the weight Of A Person. A person waking up from shallow sleep Tries to compensate for depth In the liminal spaces Of cracked pavements and mud streets Of moist fibers of wood sheaths And in the brief hours Of dawn.

My father has a hospital bed at home I like sleeping on it Or playing with its manual recliner Adjusting it to my liking: Netflix angle, around 45 degrees Reading angle, more Meditating angle, depends Flat for shavasana. While in shavasana I thought Does tatay play with the manual recliner, too? He's not as confined to it anymore Limbs are healthier after the stroke At 2am he would always get up And move to the living room sofa to sleep This signals the great changing of guards In the early hours of dawn As I slowly jump into tatay's hospital bed Adjusting the recliner to my liking. Oh sweet luxury of choice And of play And of role play It can get scary Buy more time Spend more time. I hear the roosters crow Must be 4am Any moment now tatay will reclaim his twilight, reclining throne. I shall inch back to the king-sized bed. In the name Of the father Of the son And of the holy spirit Amen.

The blues Also happen In the expansive breath Of the mountains But Hues of doom The blues Are disarmed Each time The loyal blinding, golden light Usurps the dark throne Albeit rather briefly Air suspended victory The loyal blinding, golden light Shows up in the morning Shows up in the morning Always Shows up in the morning.

Fresh and Fast Concord Kebab Shop Single, double, large Pizza, manoosh, pide Persian or Turkish The couple's mother tongue Flying 10 for 12 dollars for chicken wings Protein box Beef, chicken, mixed Say cheese Fresh and Fast To save money I prefer pick-up John, to my surprise, she called my name Free chicken wings while I wait Ham and pineapple pizza Single Ready for you Im ready for you Next time  Fresh and Fast Concord Kebab Shop Ham and pineapple pizza Double Ready for you, John And...

It's from my friend Tatia This sofa Three years ago she broke up with her boyfriend Sold everything, and split the money I was new to Sydney, just moving to my own place Happy to buy second hand, pre-loved Post-love New beginnings from the vestiges of broken relationships What remains of love when it 'ends' Still love. This sofa from my friend Tatia It's been three years I'm giving up on it I'm letting it go Or so I thought My back already aches, one vertebra by vertebra Must be the years, must be Netflix or must be the chill that went with Netflix and chill I was supposed to throw it away Dump it in the trash It has served me well I'm not bitter even if it starts to hurt Broken bones are better than broken hearts. But I'm salvaging it from total damnation I have a balcony, perhaps it can occupy that space This sofa from my friend Tatia From broken hearts, to broken bones, to witnessing broken people passing by below my vista I sit here at night With a g...

I sit on my black, shaky, plastic stool  As I put my walking shoes on  One glance to the right  My left hand already latched onto the door knob  I motion to twist that piece of silver  One deep breath  To honor this space of departure  To the open, fresh, green, sunny morning Then bask under the gossiping canopies of trees, my friendly neighbours I sit on my black, shaky, plastic stool  As I take off my walking shoes  One glance to the right  One deep breath  To honor this space of arrival  It's Friday.

Nice to meet you A long-time friend told me After I posted on instagram The visible frequencies of light I have kept hidden Until the wavelengths pushed themselves Past through my teardrops Bending towards an arc Too beautiful to dismiss I wonder why the world for the longest time Looked at that glorious display Of pride and of authenticity With much disgust As if it belonged to the dark side of the universe. Nice to meet you Another long-time friend told me The scales in her eyes enthusiastically falling And her gaze rushing towards me She gives me one long look Straight into my freshly washed eyes Are you happier she asked I did not say a word And she hugged me The warmth between two real bodies Evaporates a hardened familiar barricade. Nice to meet you, too.

As I walk I think of dad Who is relearning to walk A stroke of fate A test of faith I press prayers onto the frothing sand Cemented by the constant pounding of waves Intensive care.

An abomination The shade I enjoy  As I write this, thinking of you Under a fruitless tree While clever shards of sunshine Push thru the canopies of summer leaves Light landing onto my morning eyes They squint As they frame the movement in the branches When a tweeting, almost weightless bird Brings with its swaying motions  The all important message That the world has space for Paradox That two seemingly contradicting propositions May be well founded and true The comfort of a shadow on a park bench And the the optimism of the blades of grass in view  A blanket of glorious green, bare surrendered Before a cloudless Sunday sun The fleeting morning dew on the lawn Rendered useful to a brown spotted labrador As it wades thru the remaining mist on the ground Careless, running free A spectator's delight A freedom not shared Is a daily bread not spared.

 I  look up at the clear blue Easter sky There are no clouds spelled JESUS And I wonder if people in China see CONFUCIOUS Or BUDDHA, or in the middle east ALLAH Do freethinkers see UNIVERSE? The agnostics must be the happiest people today My prayers are floating in the air They don't go upwards Is it because of my constant questioning Fanning the incense of my murmurings? In two minutes my 'church' starts its resurrection Sunday service I have not connected the livestream to my tele  But there is old gospel music playing A band-aid solution to my palpitations Where can I find ammonia balls? - - - Still nothing. I shall wait.  Still expecting. - - - Another uncertain question While the beating of the drums go harder And the chorus reach coda Crescendo. And it ends. But Spotify is on shuffle. Another song begins. For now, that is  Enough.  Always has been. Always will be. Grace period is Grace Period.

Waking up at 7 in the morning On a cold autumn Sunday Is as crisp as the satisfying crunch Of the dried, yellow leaves The full weight of my week Pressing them onto the coldness Of Burwood's pavement Still asleep. Take the train to the City I reckon, and ride the ferry And be tossed at the Harbour To Watsons Bay Walk to The Lighthouse Follow the short trail Spend some time watching the raging waves And thank the ocean For bearing the brunt Of a tumultuous life Now finding the calm In the suspended flight of birds. Journey back to Circular Quay This time staying indoors, upper deck Where it is warm And quiet Only the boat's engine roars -- Noise is necessary For staying afloat.

The southern beaches are quiet Their shores unruffled The sea breeze is thick with the muffled sound Of the scattered rippling of waves And the chirping of birds Of random unfamiliar muted chatters in Mandarin and French And the solid staccatic barking of the moneyed's white boat engines -- I did a little bushwalking, too Passing thru 2000 year-old aboriginal arts engraved in stones Finally stopping by Jibbon Beach Laid down my handwoven mat Pressed my left ear to the ground As I slowly walked my fingers to the sand Holding a pinch and forming circles Until the crystals fall off Shifting my head to the sky Squinting my left eye Followed by the closing of the right The vastness of the curved blue sky Consumed by the pitch blackness Of a quiet sleep By the beach.

Who needs sunshine In the Central Grand Terminal When the light of day Is cannibalised by the round, suspended Bright lights that line the steel roof foundation Your destination is absolute Flashed on the enormous electronic screen With orange and black text scrolling upwards Incessantly, then pauses for a while As if pacifying your beating heart You stop momentarily, scanning for the correct platform to board You breathe a sigh of relief, 3 more minutes to spare I see you As I refill my soy capuccino cup with tap water I tried to process why I chose to read here, of all places I stepped out of the gates an hour ago with no destination in mind So I chose to settle, enjoy some prose Watch people pull luggages, some running, some taking their own sweet time And I see you And I see me Rooted to my seat, joyful in my temporal solitary transient state You are leaving in a snap I am staying Who needs sunshine in the Central Grand Station When we are all guided By our own sense of destination...

John Banville once wrote a novel It's called The Sea Where allegories of crashing waves And tumultous lives are pictured to find rest  When they reach the shores Forming transient froth and bubbles Like memories appearing so clearly Until they vanish with another crashing of waves Memories come and go Like small ripples on the shore  Ever advancing and retreating Bathing the sand  I'm playing with my feet I try to confront the crashing of waves Dissipating all the memories Of a tumultuous life Only to find its fragments In the small bubbles and froth Foaming albeit fleeting ashore They are lovely to look at Those small, white bubbles But they are the byproduct Of so much agitation and beating. How wonderful it is to find beauty In the remains of anxiety No matter how fleeting No matter how momentary.

When your cold feet In the darkest of nights Brushed against my own toes It sent shivers in my spine  Supined in my dreams Of more than a decade of falling in love with you Unrequited. As I pressed my own head Onto your sweet smelling back My hopes for a reciprocated gesture A touch, a nudge, a quick acknowledgment  Of my invigorated love Drowned by my own fears of your own fears To let go of your inhibitions. You did not turn your face towards me But I kept on resting my nose on your frame Until the break of day Breaks the ennui of my sleepless devotion That remains unfurled in our own worlds Of unresolved crisis in how we see ourselves In the eyes of our own dreaded nightmares. The brushing of your feet against mine The summoning of your all too familiar scent  The silence of your feelings failing to give answers To my years of undying, relentless peculiar love for you They all vanished in the ...

The irony of the chilling wind  Summons the neophyte on a summer day Sydney, you felt lonely. Your train stations channel centuries of history The rust on the railways evaporate into the air Forming rustic marriages with the countless graffitis That travel with me into your suburbs Lined by untrimmed trees whose irregular canopies Highlight the view's randomness in the expanse of your many spaces Filled by brick, small houses; grasses filling the cracks in the pavements You smell of pure earth, organic and unfiltered. Your people, they are great They seem to come from a joyous eternal spring Their pleasantries sparking with enthusiasm Not a fan of short hi’s and hello's But love the stretch of asking  ‘Mate, how are you today?’, all the time. They love to chill, did I mention the beach in Bondi? Their sculpted bodies flat carpeting the fine, white sand I look at them from  afar while I squeeze lemon  Onto my fish and chips...

To the Land Down Under From the Little Red Dot My space expands like a ripple Set by a drop of grace. When excitement and anxiety gel They stick and breathe rhythms of Palpitations in the hundreds Thoughts, running in the thousands. Breaking the comfort of a world familiar Is the hope for good beginnings Uncertain as it may seem for now The skies will soon open, my meditations calmer. I rest my fears In the mapmaker Of unchartered territories.

My brother deflects a hug With the agility of sprinkled water Hopping through the surface  Of heated oil in a pan. My brother flinches over endearments Like a bacon wrinkling, shriveling. Our sweet words Reduced into mere affectations. But he feeds us with umami Until our guts herniate  Through the crevices Of our hungry hearts. His love language is as discreet As the layers of subtle flavors Rising from his buttered skillet-- Pickle relish.